


Can You Forgive Me?

by SirLancelotTheBrave



Series: Love and Brotherhood [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Aramis killed Charon, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance, implied Porthos/Charon, so naturally he thinks Porthos will hate him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirLancelotTheBrave/pseuds/SirLancelotTheBrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You loved him, and I killed him. You should hate me!" Set after "The Homecoming." Aramis thinks Porthos will hate him for killing Charon. Porthos doesn't quite know what he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Forgive Me?

The empty bottle hit the floor with a loud _thunk_ and rolled away under the bed. Porthos thought about procuring another, but part of him knew getting drunk wouldn’t help tonight. It wouldn’t rid him of the visions behind his eyes; Charon falling in his arms, warm blood pumping across Porthos’s hands. He hadn’t killed him, but what difference did that make now?

He’d gone with his friends to the tavern that night, acting like nothing was wrong. He’d cheated at cards, started a brawl, winked at the pretty barmaids. But he hadn’t once met Aramis’s eye since they’d left the Court, and he knew the other man had noticed. He just couldn’t bring himself to look at him, and he’d sensed Aramis sinking into self-loathing, probably assuming Porthos was grieving for Charon.

Which was partially true. Porthos had been replaying childhood memories of Charon all evening. It no longer mattered that Charon had tried to kill him. The pain of that betrayal was for another time. They’d fought together, bled together. Charon had taught him how to throw a knife, hilt first, with enough force to break bones. He remembered winters spent on the streets with Charon and Flea, stealing scraps and huddling beneath ragged blankets for warmth. Charon’s loyalty, his wit, his laughter.

Porthos couldn’t escape the specter that loomed in his chamber even now. He couldn’t forget that in his last moments, Charon wasn’t an enemy, wasn’t a rival. He was just a dying man, speaking his last words to his oldest friend.

“I told you I was getting out.” The words pounded in Porthos’s skull, breathing new life into old regrets. When he had left the Court, he had not looked back. He hadn’t once considered that others might want a way out too, let alone Charon. He’d never said, not in all their years together. Porthos wondered what else he had missed.

Perhaps Charon’s desperate betrayal would have been easier to bear if their history had not been what it was. If Porthos had not fought beside him, played beside him. If they hadn’t loved the same woman. If they hadn’t loved each other.

* * *

 

Porthos didn’t know how old he was the day Charon had kissed him. It was winter, and the snow was coming down heavily. They were both freezing, so when Charon had looked at him and whispered, “I know how we can keep warm,” Porthos hadn’t stopped to think. He’d leaned closer, and Charon had kissed him.

It wasn’t his first kiss, but it was his first kiss from another man. It was different somehow, but just as intoxicating, and Porthos had responded enthusiastically. He didn’t love Charon, not really. He thought maybe he loved Flea; he wasn’t entirely sure. But that didn’t matter, because Charon hadn’t said anything about love, and so it began.

It went on for some months, in back rooms after narrow escapes, after successful robberies. Porthos went on loving Flea in silence, and waiting for a chance to get out. The things he did with Charon were fun, but never serious. For Porthos, it was a diversion from the horrors of life in the Court, that was all. He loved his friend, but he wasn’t in love with him. He never thought to ask if it was anything more to his partner.

It was summer when he left. There had been an incident in the Court a few days before. A young man, about the same age Porthos guessed himself to be, had appeared suddenly in the streets, chasing after a fleeing thief with reckless determination. The thief had ducked into a narrow alley, and the young man had followed. Porthos knew it was unlikely the man would emerge alive; he clearly knew nothing about the Court of Miracles.

Charon had laughed and made some remark about the stupidity of soldiers who didn’t know better than to steer clear of the Court, but Porthos had felt worry bubble in his stomach.

Normally, he’d have continued on his way, maybe even followed to see if the idiot had anything of value left on his corpse when he arrived. But something in the man’s expression made him draw a dagger and run after him, ignoring Charon’s shouts to come back. The young man had looked proud, determined, confident. He was doing his duty honorably; he believed in something. Porthos wanted that for himself, and he felt a connection to the young soldier. He didn’t want him to die.

He’d run through the alley until he had almost reached the boundary of the Court. There he found the soldier on the ground, the thief on top of him, trying to force a dagger into his chest. The young man was strong, but he had clearly been caught by surprise. He would be dead in seconds.

Porthos didn’t think. He threw the dagger. It embedded itself neatly in the thief’s shoulder. The man howled and fled towards the city, out of the Court. Porthos hung back as the young man leapt to his feet. “My thanks,” he said panting. “But now I must be off. That man stole Captain Treville’s purse!” He turned to go, but paused, looking back at Porthos. “Really, you have my sincerest thanks. I’m very fond of my life. If you come to the Musketeers’ garrison, I’m sure the Captain would reward your initiative. Might be a way out of this place!” He began jogging after the thief, waving a friendly farewell. “Tell him Aramis sent you!”

With that, the young man had vanished. Porthos had walked slowly back to Charon, who’d berated him for risking his neck for a soldier and then dragged him into a convenient alley. Porthos went through the motions with him, but in his head he could see the handsome young man’s friendly face and hear the words, “A way out.”

Three days later he had packed his things, stopping only so say goodbye to his few friends. Charon had stared at him with an expression Porthos hadn’t recognized and turned away without a word. As he walked to the garrison, Porthos didn’t look back

* * *

 

He knew now what that nameless expression had been. He had broken Charon’s heart. He knew because he had seen it on Aramis’s face when Marsac had deserted, and on Athos’s when he drank away his demons. Charon had loved him, and Porthos had walked away without a second thought. He’d never even known.

The knowledge that he’d put Charon through that pain brought bile to his throat. He hadn’t realized until Charon lay dying in his arms, hadn’t fully comprehended it until he was far away from the Court and the body of the man who had loved him. He would never have a chance to apologize now, and it ached within him.

And then there was Flea. Pain laced through his heart when he thought of her, but it was easier to bear. He loved her, but it would never be, and maybe that was alright. The only thing in this mess that was. He sighed and rose to find another bottle of wine. Maybe tonight would be better spent drunk after all.

A knock at his door made him nearly drop the bottle. It was so late. He hadn’t thought he would come. He walked to the door and pulled it open.

Aramis wouldn’t meet his eye, entering the room with silent grace. He stood by the fire, fidgeting with his hat. Porthos knew he should say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Fury and rage and shame thundered through him. He was in agony. Dimly he realized Aramis was speaking.

“I came to- to say- I’m sorry,” Aramis said. He seemed to be having difficulty speaking, his voice hesitant and hoarse. He took a deep breath and went on. “Sorry your friend betrayed you. But I’m not- not-” he paused for a moment, looking at the floor.

When he spoke again, his voice was clearer. “I am not sorry I killed him. I cannot be, so don’t ask it of me. He would have killed you. I am glad it was I who stopped him.” He looked up, trying to meet Porthos’s eyes, but Porthos glanced away. “Better me than you,” he added softly.

Porthos said nothing, struggling to breathe around the lump rising in his throat. He felt as if he were fighting back tears, but who for? Charon, Aramis, or himself?

“When I killed Marsac, you told me you wished you had struck the final blow so that I could have hated you. I am glad Charon did not die by your hand. Now you can hate me, instead of yourself.” He smiled dully at these last words, eyes full of pain. “You’ll be better off with Flea anyway. I wish you nothing but happiness.” He reached up and set his hat on his head, and Porthos realized with a feeling like panic that Aramis was going to leave.

He couldn’t leave.

Not yet.

“Wait,” he croaked, and Aramis froze, staring at him like a cornered animal.

But Porthos didn’t speak again. Seconds turned into minutes as Aramis stared at him. At last he relaxed slightly. “Wait for what?” he asked, voice surprisingly gentle. “There is nothing further to say.” He smiled rather sadly. “You can’t even look at me.” Porthos struggled and failed to raise his eyes. Aramis nodded as if he’d expected nothing less and turned away.

Porthos howled internally, willing his mouth to open, to beg Aramis to stay. Nothing happened, and with a last pained smile Aramis left the room.

Suddenly the flood of emotions rampaging through Porthos’s head cut off until only one remained. Hatred.

He hated Charon for dying and leaving him this mess.

He hated Flea for putting doubt in his heart.

And he hated himself, for being too weak to tell Aramis the truth.

He couldn’t look at Aramis, couldn’t speak to him, couldn’t tell him he forgave him, because he himself was not worthy of Aramis.

Before they’d left the Court, Aramis had asked Porthos if he’d ever believed they had abandoned him. “Never,” Porthos had said, and they’d laughed and gone to the bar.

He had lied.

The lie burned through him like acid in his veins, eating away his thoughts and filling him with shame. He had doubted his friends, doubted _Aramis._ Aramis, who he knew would have defended his innocence to his dying breath. More than Charon’s death, more than leaving Flea, the shame of it crippled him.

The image of Charon’s last look as he left the Court all those years ago flashed before his eyes. Aramis had looked like that for a moment as he turned to leave.

Heartbroken.

The flare of pain that followed jerked him out of his trance-like state. He leapt to his feet and was out the door before he had fully processed what he was doing. He could see Aramis in the street some ways ahead of him, and he ran.

Aramis heard him approaching and turned, eyes blown wide with shock and grief. He stared at Porthos, waiting for an explanation, and Porthos realized he had no idea what to say. He hadn’t exactly thought this through.

So perhaps the best idea was not to think at all. A brief glance showed the street was deserted, so without pausing to consider his actions Porthos grabbed the back of Aramis’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.

It was not graceful and there was little art to it. Porthos felt their teeth crash together, but Aramis did not push him away and so he did not stop, lingering for a long as was safe in so public a place. When he pulled away, Aramis was still staring at him, questions burning in his reddened eyes.

“What-?” Aramis began, but Porthos shushed him and pulled him insistently in the direction of his lodgings. Aramis followed as if dazed.

When they reentered his rooms, Porthos still hadn’t worked out what to say, so he kissed Aramis again. This time Aramis pushed him away, confusion written on his handsome features. “What is going on?” he asked helplessly.

“You think I hate you. I don’t, I don’t, not at all, I could _never,”_ Porthos babbled, aware that the words were tripping off his tongue with very little forethought. “I don’t hate you for killing Charon, and I don’t want to be with Flea. Thought I loved her once, but I know now that I don’t anymore, maybe I never did, not like you. And Charon, Charon doesn’t even enter into it! It doesn’t matter, you must see that-”

“Porthos, slow down!” Aramis cried, raising his hands defensively. Porthos took a deep breath, watching him intently. He gazed directly into Aramis’s eyes, willing him to understand.

“So what you’re saying,” Aramis began hesitantly. “Is that you aren’t going with Flea, and you forgive me for killing Charon.” Porthos nodded urgently. “I don’t understand you!” Aramis cried suddenly, calm demeanor slipping. “You loved him, and I killed him. You should hate me!”

_“Never,”_ Porthos growled, moving closer. “I will never hate you. He was going to kill me, and you saved my life. You protected me, Aramis,” he said fiercely.

Aramis looked utterly lost. “I didn’t love him,” Porthos continued more softly. “He loved me, I think. But I never loved him.”

“But what about Flea?” Aramis asked, voice full of pain. “You love her.”

“I did once,” Porthos agreed, knowing as he said it that it was the truth. “But I made my choice years ago when I left. I chose you then, remember? And I’m choosing you now,” he finished softly, closing the gap between them. He didn’t move to touch Aramis, not yet, trying to give the other man time to understand what had suddenly become so clear in his own mind.

“B-but earlier,” Aramis stammered, hope beginning to glimmer in his eyes, “you wouldn’t look at me.” Shame and guilt washed through Porthos once more, but he refused to break eye contact. “I was ashamed,” he murmured. “When you asked if I thought you’d abandoned me, I doubted you for a moment. How could I think that about you, of all people?” He choked, unable to continue. Part of him wondered if he was touched in the head, that this betrayal of Aramis affected him more deeply than the fact that the man had killed his oldest friend. Then the rest of him decided he didn’t care.

“Is that all?” Aramis asked in amazement. “Porthos, that is nothing.”

“You don’t understand,” Porthos insisted. He had expected anger, or at least disappointment. The lack of reaction concerned him. “I love you, and I doubted you. I bet you never doubted that I was innocent,” he added bitterly. Aramis did not contradict him. “How could I think such a thing of you?” He looked away at last, shame burning his face. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course I can, Porthos,” Aramis whispered, bringing his hands up to caress the sides of his neck. “That is nothing. Nothing. What does it matter that you doubted me for a moment? Do you still?” Porthos shook his head immediately. “Then where is the harm? Did you think I would turn from you because you questioned my loyalty?” He shook his head, a fond smile lighting his features. “I love you, you idiot. A moment of doubt on your part will not change that.”

Porthos had stopped listening, staring at Aramis in shock. He’d said it. Out loud.

_He loves me._

When Porthos did not respond at once, fear flickered in Aramis’s eyes. Porthos could sense his uncertainty, sense that the words had slipped out unplanned and now Aramis was beginning to panic. To silence his fears, Porthos kissed him soundly, whispering the words back to him against his lips. _I love you. I love you._

Much later, lying in bed, Porthos marveled over the words. Everything else seemed far away now. Later he would grieve for Charon, when enough time had passed to ease his confused thoughts. Aramis shifted against him in his sleep and Porthos grinned. Why grieve tonight? He had happier thoughts to pass the time until dawn.

 


End file.
